“We did, that first year after Zack was born. He often told me how grateful he was that we both survived. He’d get emotional about it. But then we moved on because it was painful to talk about.” I pause, reflecting on some of the conversations we’d had. “A few times we discussed adopting a second child because we’d always intended to have two or three, and I wanted a sibling for Zack, but Alan was just so thankful for what we had. He didn’t want to upset the perfect balance. It was almost as if he felt like it would be greedy to ask for more. He would say, ‘Do you know how lucky we are? Let’s not tempt fate.’”

I look down at my lap. “I wish it could have been simpler. I wish I’d been able to get pregnant again and that it could have gone smoothly the second time around.”

Carla reaches for my hand. “At least you had Zack, and he’s an amazing kid. And we were all lucky you survived that day. As for Alan, I know he loved you and Zack. He was a good man. I think you’re just upset and confused because of what happened. Your whole world has just been turned upside down. You’re traumatized.”

“Maybe you’re right.”

We sit for another few minutes. Then Carla pulls onto the road, and we continue toward the accident site.

We reach the main highway and drive for about a mile before I ask Carla to slow down. I peer out the window and search for the spot at the edge of the forest where my SUV landed after rolling down the embankment.

Nothing looks the same in the daylight, but soon I catch a glimpse of skid marks on the pavement and bits of metal and glass on the shoulder. A rush of panic shoots through me as I relive the crash—the terrifying instant when Alan’s car struck mine. I feel the total loss of control as I fishtail on the pavement and can’t right the steering wheel. I tumble down the embankment. Glass smashes. Steel collapses. The noise is deafening, and I can’t stop the world from spinning . . .

I have to wrench myself out of the horrific memory, and I wonder how long it will be before I won’t feel nervous in a car on the highway.

“This is it,” I say, fighting to take a few deep breaths, to slow my pounding heart. “Can we stop?”

Carla checks the rearview mirror and carefully pulls over. She shuts off the engine.

We both get out. I leave the car door open as I look down the embankment to the rocky bottom, where I had been trapped in my SUV.

“Lord Almighty,” Carla says as she puts her arm around my shoulder and pulls me close. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“Yes. Me and Winston both.”

We continue to stare.

“Should we go down there?” I ask.

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I feel like I need to search around. Maybe some of my stuff is down there. I never did find my sunglasses.”

But do I really care about my sunglasses? What I truly want is clarity. Would I find it by wandering around in the ravine? Probably not.

“It looks dangerous,” Carla says.

Just then, a cell phone chimes from inside the car. I recognize the sound. It’s Alan’s phone.

My pulse quickens, because every time I hear it, I think it’s him and I feel a nonsensical thrill that he’s back. But the feeling only lasts for a fraction of a second, and then disappointment comes crashing down as I remember that he’s dead and he’ll never send texts to me again.

Nevertheless, I move quickly to check the phone. I dig it out of my purse and swipe the screen.

“It’s Paula.” My blood races as I read her message. “She’s changed her mind. She wants to talk to me.”

Carla’s forehead crinkles. “Really? When?”

“Right now. She wants to meet for a drink.”

My heart begins to pound faster and harder.

“What are you going to do?” Carla asks.

“Say yes, of course.”

Immediately, I text a reply.

I hit “Send” without hesitation and hope that the memory of my happy marriage isn’t about to be shattered as easily as everything else was when Alan and I crashed into each other.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It’s the middle of the afternoon.

Paula asked me to meet her in a bar in the neighboring town of Bridgewater, about a twenty-minute drive from my mother’s house in Lunenburg. This leaves me a brief window of time to go home and change my clothes and explain to Zack that I’m heading out to meet an old friend who also knew Alan.

A half hour later, I arrive at a sketchy-looking tavern on the outskirts of town. At first, I’m not sure I’m in the right place because it’s situated at the back of a large parking lot in an industrial area. The sign reads PAT’S PLACE, and the building is painted black, including the windows. There are only a few cars parked around back—a couple of rusty old clunkers and a pickup truck. I feel a bit like Alice about to fall down the rabbit hole.

After a moment’s deliberation, I decide to take my chances. I get out of the car, approach the front door, and walk in.

Based on my first impression of the exterior, the inside is exactly as I imagined it would be. It’s dingy and dimly lit, with low ceilings, fake wood paneling, and a pool table. There’s a noticeable stench of stale beer in the air.

My breathing accelerates, and I break out in a sweat, because I’m not the sort of person who frequents dive bars like this, especially not alone. At least there’s no rowdy biker gang in here this afternoon.

There are only a few patrons at the bar—weathered-looking old men, sitting forward with their hands cupped around mugs of beer. They sit apart from each other, watching an old box TV with a snowy picture. It sits on a shelf behind the bartender, who wears a tight, dirty gray T-shirt that barely covers his bulging belly.

Swallowing uneasily—and still not entirely sure I’m in the right place—I move beyond the entrance. My feet stick to the floor. Every step sounds like Velcro.

In that moment, I decide I’ll do whatever it takes not to have to use the washroom while I’m here.

I don’t see Paula anywhere, but there are a few tables around a back corner, so I venture deeper into the shadows. At last, I find her alone at a table near the washrooms, surrounded by empty wineglasses. Her head has fallen forward onto her arms on the table. She appears to be asleep. Or passed out.

I clear my throat.

Slowly, she lifts her head and meets my gaze with bloodshot eyes and smeared mascara. “Abbie. What are you doing here?”

“You texted me and told me to come.”

Seconds pass while she blinks up at me, struggling to comprehend my words. “Did I?”

“Yes.”

She wets her lips and leans back in the chair. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Well, you did, and here I am.”

Sitting down on a rickety chair across from her, I clutch my purse on my lap. The bartender walks by and pushes through the door to the men’s washroom. A terrible odor wafts out as the door swings shut, and I press the back of my hand to my nose to keep from gagging.

“Do you often come here?” I ask, because I still can’t believe she chose this place for us to meet.

Paula can barely hold her head up. It’s obvious that she’s drunk. “I know . . . it’s pathetic, but it’s the only place where I’m sure I won’t bump into anyone I know.”

Paula reaches for her wineglass, tips it back, and swallows the entire contents in a single gulp.

I shake my head at her. “You’re not planning on driving anywhere, I hope.”

“Definitely not.” She sets the glass down, slides it away, and burps like a trucker, then glances toward the bar. “Where did he go? I need another one.”

The doctor in me can’t help but try and talk some sense into her. “If you keep this up, you’re going to be sick, or worse. I’m sure you know that people die of alcohol poisoning. You should drink some water.”

Her glassy-eyed gaze meets mine, and she merely shrugs.

I notice her clammy skin and greasy honey-colored hair. I doubt she’s showered since the night I saw her at the funeral home. Nevertheless, despite her poor personal hygiene, she’s still a naturally beautiful woman with a dewy complexion and big blue eyes—the type who doesn’t need makeup. Personally, I have to work at my appearance, and this contrast makes my insides squeeze like a fist.

“Where’s your car?” I ask, remembering the clunkers I saw in the parking lot.

She gestures inelegantly. “That way.”

“You’ll have to leave it, wherever it is. I’ll take you home. We can talk while we drive.”

She shakes her head. “No. I’m not going home.”

“Why not?”

Her speech is so badly slurred I can barely make out a word she says. “Because my husband can’t see me like this.” She reaches for the empty wineglass, picks it up by the stem, peers inside, and tries to suck out a few remaining drops. “Thanks to you.”

“And why is this my fault?”

“Because you went to my house, and now he’s suspicious. Not that he wasn’t suspicious before. He probably was.”

My stomach muscles clench tight with dread. “Suspicious of what?”

Paula looks up at me drunkenly, as if I’m a fool. “What do you think? It’s the reason you’re here, isn’t it? The reason you’ve been texting me. The reason you went to my house.” She sits back and waves a hand through the air. “Because you’ve figured it all out. You know what was going on between Alan and me.”

I feel a bit sick, because she appears to be admitting flat out that she and Alan were having an affair.

I’m not sure what to say or do. I’m in shock, and I can’t speak.

“I need another glass of wine,” Paula says, squinting toward the bar.

At this point, I could probably use a stiff drink too, but I resist the urge because I need to keep my wits about me and get the whole story out of her.

“I think you’ve had enough,” I say.